A Matter of Perspective

I got called to my son’s school one afternoon, to talk to the principal. It was a surprise to hear from the office; Davey was a soft-spoken, shy kind of boy, and he had never caused trouble before, so I was curious about what might have happened.

“Is he hurt? Did he get into a fight?” I’d asked the receptionist who called me at work.

“No, Ms. Jones, he’s not hurt. There was no physical altercation. All I know is he did something that upset a lot of his classmates.”

I’d told my assistant to cancel my appointment for the rest of the day, and I hopped into my car and headed directly for Davey’s school.

I followed the perky bouncing walk of a sweet-faced receptionist whose name tag read Miss Suzie, through the main office to the principal’s room. Mr. Perry was seated at his desk, a hulking man with kind eyes, and across from him sat Davey, looking small in his own oversized chair, swinging his legs nervously and looking out the window.

“Hello Mr. Perry,” I said, shaking the principal’s hand, “I’m Davey’s mom, Janet.”

Then I went to my son and crouched down to meet his eyes.

“Hi Honey,” I said, and kissed his forehead, “Are you okay?”

Davey simply nodded, not quite meeting my gaze, his soft mouth compressed into a tight little line.

“Please have a seat, Ms. Jones,” Mr. Perry’s large hand indicated with an open gesture a third chair, situated beside Davey’s.

I took a seat.

“Thank you for coming. I was just asking Davey about what happened this afternoon. He hasn’t told me much; but here’s what I understand happened, from what Ms. Lynn told me.”

Ms. Lynn was Davey’s teacher, whom I had only met briefly the week before school started, at a parent-teacher orientation meeting. She seemed the serious-but-fair sort, and my son liked her well enough.

Mr. Perry went on, “Ms. Lynn was reading the grade twos a story this morning, about how in some places in the world, the children don’t have enough food to eat. As you may have read in the newsletter we sent home last week, we’re doing a UNICEF drive this month, to raise awareness and hopefully send a decent sum of money to some areas in need, in South Asia.”

“Okay… yes, I read the newsletter,” I said, wondering what this had to do with Davey.

“After reading the story, Ms. Lynn led the class in a discussion about how fortunate we are here, how lucky every person in our school is, to have a lunch to bring to school every day. That we must be grateful for our blessings.”

“Sure,” I agreed, “We are very fortunate for what we have.”

“Well,” continued Mr. Perry, raising his eyebrows and leaning back in his chair, “The lunch period immediately followed this discussion. I hear from Ms. Lynn that at the sound of the bell, Davey here,” — he nodded his head towards my son — “Promptly took his sandwich from his lunch box and threw it into the garbage can at the front of the classroom.”

Hearing these words, Davey dropped his shoulders with apparent shame and continued staring out the window, so I knew it must be true, although I couldn’t imagine what might have inspired this action.

“I’m told that many of the other grade twos had been quite moved by the story about the hungry children, and their subsequent discussion on how they could help. Ms. Lynn said all the students — including Davey — seemed very excited, and motivated to action; they were vowing to outdo the other classes in our upcoming fundraiser efforts. Our school is having a friendly competition, you see; the class that raises the most money gets a free pizza lunch.”

“Ahh,” I responded, “how nice.”

Although the irony of a frivolous pizza lunch for well-fed kids in celebration of raising money so that other, starving kids might get a good meal was not lost on me.

Mr. Perry steepled his fingers under his nose, and went on, “But then Davey walked with uncharacteristic confidence and boldness straight up to that garbage can, and smiled at the entire class as he threw away his food.”

I turned my head towards Davey with a puzzled expression on my face and saw that his eyes were filling with tears. He used the heel of his palm to push his sandy blond locks out of his face.

“Davey,” I tried in a soothing voice, “This sounds a little strange to Mommy… why did you throw out your food when you know there are hungry children in the world?”

He shrugged.

Mr. Perry persisted in a stern but warm voice, “Davey, there are thousands of children who won’t get to eat a meal today. How do you think they would feel if they saw you wasting food, and smiling about it?”

My son responded by bursting into tears but offered no explanation for his actions. He did manage to say, in a quaking voice that broke my heart a little, “All the other kids were yelling at me. Now they all think I’m so mean.”

“Well Davey,” Mr. Perry said, “It isn’t kind at all to mock those who are less fortunate than we are; it isn’t nice to make a joke out of it. Throwing your sandwich in the garbage isn’t funny. Do you understand?”

Davey burst into tears and blubbered something incoherent. I thought I caught the words, “Just wanted to help.”

Mr. Perry shook his head with an air of confused impatience and checked his watch.

“What you did is the opposite of help, son. Well, seeing as it’s the end of the day, why don’t you go home with your Mom now? I am not going to give you any detention, but Davey, please remember to be kind, and do not throw your food in the garbage anymore. Understood?”

He nodded solemnly and wiped his eyes.

We all stood, and Davey picked up his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and walked quickly out of the room and down the hall. After saying goodbye to Mr. Perry, and sharing my bewilderment at my son’s odd behavior, I walked quickly to catch up with him, and we got into the car.

We drove home in silence, my gentle probing questions not yielding any new information that might shed some light on Davey’s understanding of the events that had taken place. Something about Mr. Perry’s version of the story didn’t seem right, although Davey made no effort to deny the principal’s portrayal of his actions. I could only conclude that he had done as Mr. Perry said.

Yet the image he had painted of a spiteful, mocking boy didn’t fit at all with the kind one I knew so well; Davey was sweet, and gentle, the sort of child who rescues worms from rainy sidewalks, and offers to push the smaller kids on the swings at the park.

Beside me in the car, Davey seemed deflated, completely exhausted from the ordeal. He sat slumped against the backseat door, his eyelids puffy and half-closed, probably stinging a bit after his cry in the principal’s office.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk more about it?” I tried one more time, as we pulled into the driveway.

“No.” He shut the door and walked towards the house. Just before going inside he turned back and said, “Mom, can I watch some TV?”

I almost said no, thinking he should go to his room and think about his earlier actions some more. But the truth was, I could see he had suffered enough, having relived the afternoon’s events more than once already.

“Okay Sweetie,” I said.

I gathered my work satchel from the trunk before entering the house myself. When I did, I noticed the television was already on, and Davey was sitting in front of it with a very pained expression on his face.

I walked over.

As soon as I saw what was on the screen, I understood everything.

A commercial was playing, an appeal to sympathetic viewers who, for less money than it cost to buy a cup of coffee every day, could support a hungry child in need on the other side of the world.

As the narrator presented his case, the camera showed footage of shoeless children clothed in grey rags, their bellies unhealthily distended with parasites and hunger. They scavenged through vast garbage dumps, somewhere in a distant land, searching for food, tools, toys — any little treasure or trinket they might salvage from the mountains of trash.

I went to sit beside my son.

“Davey?” I asked, “Today when you threw your sandwich in the garbage, you were trying to help, weren’t you?”

Davey nodded, those tears once again filling his beautiful eyes.

“I wanted to give those children my sandwich,” he managed in a small voice.

Of course. The garbage can in Davey’s classroom would get emptied into a large truck, which would take it — along with all the other garbage — to a dump somewhere in a far-off place. Then Davey’s beautiful, entire sandwich would be discovered by a hungry child, whose eyes would light up in delight because normally, he would only ever find pizza crusts, half-rotten vegetables, or a mostly-empty can of brown beans if he was lucky. This child would run to share his incredible find with the other hungry children.

Davey was not throwing his sandwich away carelessly, to waste it. He was trying to deliver it to those who needed it more than he did.

I wrapped my arms around my son.

Now it was my turn to cry.

This story is loosely based on my own childhood experience; I threw out my own entire lunch at school one day, imagining (as Davey did) that it would find its way to a child more in need of it than I was.

Feeling like a hero (and also feeling hungry), I went home that day and told my mom what I’d done.

She gently informed me that’s not exactly how it works.

Here’s to the beauty and innocence of a child’s loving heart and sweet intentions.

Here’s to all the children in the world who are hungry right now.